THE SPINET.
Reading edition
My heart an old Spinet with strings To laughter chiefly turned, but some That Fate has practised hard on, dumb, They answer not whoever sings. The ghosts of half-forgotten things Will touch the keys with fingers numb, The little mocking spirits come And thrill it with their fairy wings.
A jingling harmony it makes My heart, my lyre, my old Spinet, And now a memory it wakes, And now the music means “forget,” And little heed the player takes Howe’er the thoughtful critic fret.